Brokenhearted Victory
by Conraat
Summary: A very vague fanfic about Russia torturing the Baltic states. More specifically, RussiaxLithuania. And RussiaxLatvia, sort of.
1. Toris

It hadn't been long since their skin had blistered, since their wounds had festered and poisoned their blood, since their flesh had rotted away to the stark white of bone. It hadn't been long since they first clawed at the stone walls of their prison, since they had carved dark gashes in their skin to get to the ticks they felt gnawing beneath, since they had gouged their own eyes out to stop the awful sights.

No, it hadn't been long.

After all, it hadn't been long since Russia had 'taken them under his wing' and started the torture.

He was going to kill them. This was something they were aware of. They knew he was going to drag it out for an eternity and smile at their suffering. But how long was an eternity? And how much longer could they hold out?

Their land was gone, all of it was gone. That was why their bodies were dissolving before their very eyes. But they hadn't ceased to exist. Not yet. They still hoped.

Was this what Russia was trying to do? Was he going to sit back and watch as their bodies and minds fought over the inevitable end?

But there was a more important question that was pressing on their minds. Was he ever going to put them out of their misery?

They guessed he didn't know. He didn't respond when they held interrogations of their own. He didn't respond when they threatened to inflict this suffering upon him. He didn't respond when one of them lunged at him; he only twisted their arms and snapped the weak, dry bone like a twig.

And then he would smile his horrible smile and tell them that every attack, every complaint, every question, every _word_ was another minute added to their life. But even that could not stop them.

More than once, they had tried to take their own lives. More than once, they had tried to assist each other in the act. But it was hard, so hard; there were no guns, no knives, no pills to end this torturous life. And after a while they realized. They could not do it. There was no escape.

And then one day Russia came in the night, and stole one of them away as the others slept on, dreams punctuated by shrieks that could wake the dead yet did not wake them. And he took the other out, out of that prison, out of his house, pulling the other's arm out of its socket as he skipped along. The sobs of blind pain had no effect on him as they waded through a field of flowers, bright faces upturned to the freezing sun.

"W-what… are you… doing?" the other asked, whispering voice rasping from lack of use in a throat swollen from fear. Russia smiled, leaned in, pressed a kiss lighter than the flutter of a butterfly's wing to the other's lips.

"Saving you," he sang quietly as the other's gaze iced over. "The others. I want to watch the others suffer. I want to watch the others die. But you…"

Chill breath frosted on the other's cheek as Russia whispered softly into his ear. "Not you, Toris. Never you."

A shaky breath filled Toris's chest, skin crisscrossed with ropelike scars stretching tight over shattered ribs. "You m-mean…"

The touch of icy metal to his temple filled him with relief, and all his fear washed away. There was no need to be scared anymore. He was safe now.

"I love you, Toris."

There was a metallic click as Russia flicked the safety off, and then he was gone, pure bliss flooding through his broken body with an ear-shattering bang. And all he could think as the darkness closed in was thank you, thank you, thank you.

_I love you too, Ivan._

_

* * *

_

**Author's Note:** There's a chance I'll be adding to this in the future, making it longer and adding some more gruesome stuff. You guys like that, right?

Please, review this! I'm not begging, but... reviews are my lifeblood and liver. Just saying.

I was going to put the 'I love you' parts in Lithuanian and Russian but I don't speak either language and I don't trust translators. If you speak the language, feel free to provide a translation~


	2. Eduard

He couldn't keep running.

Russia had chased him throughout the house, mad cackling echoing off the walls and soaking into the thick red carpet. Faced with the threat of being caught and at Russia's mercy once more, he had kept running, even though the pain throbbed through his whole being and a fire burned in his heart. But it wasn't the good kind.

He couldn't keep running.

"Come to me," the Russian had chanted in time with a resounding crack as the other man's ankle snapped. "I saved your Toris. And now I'll save you." But even with the new injury, he had kept running.

He couldn't keep running.

"Come to me," the Russian sang as the other man stumbled and pain lanced up a weak body littered with bruises all the colours of the rainbow. "I have your friend. I'll let him go." That had made him falter, if only for a second as his mind twisted the words into a lie that ignited fear in his core. But that momentary hesitation had cost him the lead.

Down he came, feeble cries leaking from between frozen lips, thin frame leaving barely a dent in the carpet. It was a nice red, he thought as he lay there and whispered fervent prayers. Deep red. Kind of like—

He screamed with the realization as Russia's foot stamped down hard on his leg, and for the second time that day he had proof that they could not last forever. The bone almost disintegrated under the pressure, shards of white spilling from open wounds left by his decomposing flesh.

He couldn't keep running.

Not now. Now he couldn't stand. Now he was once more Russia's plaything. His breath caught in his throat as the Russian hummed with pleasure, lifting him up by the collar of his shirt. The shreds of material barely covered the raw welts on his back, and they provided no protection from the infection slowly seeping into his veins and corrupting his blood, the blood which no doubt stained the once-white carpet even redder than before.

"Come to me~"

The words thudded in his mind as he slipped in and out of consciousness, in and out of sanity. Over and over the Russian whispered those words, sang them, screamed them to the skies and he was helpless, slung over the tall man's shoulder as he danced down the twisting corridors.

"Don't stop moving." The plea startled him awake and whatever tattered remains of skin that were left to cover empty eye sockets blinked open. His eyes? Where were his eyes?

"I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed these." Russia touched something to his lifeless fingers and they twitched in disgust. Then his whole body convulsed; he was sure he felt them blink.

"My eyes!" The shriek came unbidden and he scrabbled at the empty sockets, searching for some hint that it was all a trick. But all he came up with was blood.

"Da, they're beautiful…" The Russian sighed blissfully as he pressed each gleaming emerald to his lips. "But not as beautiful as Toris's. Don't worry." He brought his face close to the other's, frosted breath stinking of carrion. "I've put them somewhere safe. And now he can be mine forever…"

_Toris would never… would never…_

"Wake up, wake up! It's no fun if you don't move!"

_He'd never want this…_

"Wake up, Eduard!"

_He would never love you._


	3. Raivis

They were gone. They were both gone.

He hadn't seen them, not both of them, only Eduard's limp form tossed next to his own shaking one, but he knew in his heart that they were both gone. And their loss was an ache that swallowed up his whole being and made him dead to the pain of the physical world.

Until Russia came back.

He knew the Russian was there even before he had opened his eyes, red tears rolling from beneath closed lids. He felt his dark, sadistic joy like a touch on his skin. No, wait—there _was_ something touching his skin. And gentle lips on his own, bruised with his torturer's passion.

He wanted to scream and feel the pain that would follow. But he couldn't. He had no voice. He had no tongue. Just like the rest of his being, that belonged to Russia now.

Strong hands gripped feeble arms to still the shaking as Russia pulled away, licking the traces of blood from his lips.

They were both gone.

"My Toris is gone," the Russian whispered with undisguised bitterness. "And it's all your fault. You were bad. You took my Toris away."

He guided the other's hand to Eduard's motionless form, trailing his fingers over rotten skin slick with blood. "I brought your Eduard back for you," he went on, the pitch of his voice flickering erratically. "And we both want to hear what you have to say."

"I-I—" The words caught in his throat, choking him. He knew what he had to say. If he said it, then the pain would go away. But he wanted the pain, needed it. It was the only thing to remind him he was still alive. It was part of him now. It belonged to him now. Just like he belonged to Russia.

He shook violently and said nothing.

"Come on, my little Matryoshka," Russia soothed. "Calm down and tell me."

But he was still stuck on that word – Matryoshka. Was he really nothing more than a toy to the man? One in a series of little dolls, made for his amusement and only for him?

"You don't want to disappoint your little friend, do you?" Fingers danced across his skin, fingers colder than ice, cold as the dead—

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, the scream bottled inside with his emotions. But the bottle was leaking; he could feel the desperation coming back, the pain, the will to live—

It was gone in an instant as Russia slapped him, adding another angry red mark to the burning rash covering his skin. "You belong to me. You will do what I say."

The Russian sat back on his heels, a flash of moonlight glancing off something flickering between his fingers. And before the other knew what was happening, he was bleeding again, pain searing through diseased flesh as the knife tore through skin and muscle, scraping harshly on the brittle bone.

"Do you need another reminder that you're mine, little Matryoshka?" Russia's eyes glinted with insanity and the smaller man shrank into the wall, trying to blend in with the cold stone. And as he did, he shook his head while the shivers wracked his tiny frame. He didn't want another reminder, no, no, no—

Not another one. The others still burned, burned and burned as the infection sank deeper. Row after row of little Cyrillic letters carved like twisted tattoos into his back, each word less legible than the last. Россия, Россия, Россия.

In retrospect, he was the lucky one. He had got away with these scars when Eduard had been flogged till he could hardly move, till he could hardly breathe without screaming in pain. And Lithuania – he had been the subject of their keeper's passionate frenzy. So yes, he was the lucky one. He had been protected. But now…

They were both gone.

And now he belonged to _him._

"Then say it, little quaking Raivis. Say it."

Maybe he would get to see Toris again. Toris and Eduard, and they could be happy in Hell without Russia.

And so his lips parted, and he spoke without his stutter, spoke the words he told himself he'd never say.

"I love you, Russia."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Oh, man, I can't help but feel sorry for everyoneee.

Raivis is Ivan's replacement Toris. Always has been, always will be. Just remember that Ivan does _not_ love Raivis like he loves Toris.

Россия is Russian for Russia.

Read and Review, like always, bitte~


	4. Ivan

Where was his Toris?

He could see the body, lined up in a row with the other two. A body with Toris's hair and Toris's eyes—no, there were no eyes. A body with Toris's skin—his skin? Where was his skin? There were patches missing, running up and down his pale arms and spilling blood down his legs. Had someone stolen his skin? A body with Toris's hands—no, there were no hands. A body with Toris's perfect bloodless lips set into Toris's perfect bloodless face. But it wasn't Toris. Toris had breathed once. This body didn't breathe.

He turned to the other two, one hand clutching a knife like it was what linked him to this sweet reality. There was blood on the knife, his blood and their blood, but he didn't know how it had got on there and stained that razor blade.

They were imperfect. There were things missing. Eyes, tongues, hands. The hands were lined up on the shelf in a row behind him. _That_ was perfect. A perfect line. So why weren't his little friends perfect?

He would make them perfect.

He was halfway there already, he realized as he examined his handiwork, humming his pleasure. He was almost there. He was almost there.

Eduard had no head.

Or, rather—Eduard _was_ a head. A head, and a torso, and a pair of broken, twisted legs. A little collection of severed body parts that were so, so beautiful. And he had no eyes, either. They were gone and hidden away because they were too much like Toris's, and it hurt to look at them, it hurt too much.

Raivis had no tongue.

He had gotten sick of that endless chatter, of the pleading, of the crying, and he had cut it out—had he ever really spoken? The stutter had always got in the way, hadn't it? It was hard to remember… but it was gone now.

His fingers traced limply over the raised red marks decorating Raivis's fragile skin. There wasn't a single square inch left that didn't have the marks, those little letters marking the little one as his own. Poccия, over and over, till his skin had weakened and weakened and torn with each cut of the knife. Raivis's skin wasn't strong like his own.

Glancing down at his own palm, he smiled at the Cyrillic letters sending stabs of pain down to shock the bone. Литва. It hadn't healed properly, but that didn't matter, because the ache and the infection and the poison would always remind him that he belonged to Toris just as much as Toris belonged to him.

Forever.

His hands moved of their own accord, gripping Toris's arms hard enough to snap the bones, and he heard it and loved the sound. And he pulled him close, holding his love close, holding him tight as the wind bent the sea of yellow down to meet them.

"Look, Litva," he whispered, pressing a bittersweet kiss to unresponsive lips. "The flowers are coming to see you."

He sank down into the petals, watched as they withered at his touch, felt their pain course through his own body. Each time, it was so much worse than he remembered. And he loved it.

Would it really be so hard to lie down in this place and let the pain take him under? Would it really be so hard to drown in the pleasure? Maybe then he and his Toris could be reunited once more—

"Ivan? Are you there? Where are you, aru?"

As the words floated down, he smiled his cheerful little smile once more. It looked like the game wasn't over just yet.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Wow... It's finally done, haha. And I just realised what a horrible, horrible mind I have.

The letters carved into Ivan's hand mean Lithuania in Russian.

Read and Review, like always!

Oh, and give me suggestions for my next fic. Because I'm all out of ideas. There are a few pairings that I just flat out refuse to do - like anything with Hungary - but other than that, I'm open to ideas.


End file.
